


Wrestling With Angels

by MJ (mjr91)



Category: Boston Legal
Genre: Bromance, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ





	Wrestling With Angels

It had started, as so many things seem to, as a fight over a woman by two men. I don't think it's ending that way; I'm just not sure how it's ending, or am I?

I'm trying to think who it was… it can't have been Freud… that observed that a three-way sexual bout between two men and a woman, especially if the men are friends, is nothing more than a veneer of heterosexuality upon what is actually homoerotic behavior. I do know who it was that mentioned to me once that wrestling was an attempt to use adrenalin to cover up homoerotic sexual desire – it was my college friend Bud, who had some other choice comments about Greco-Roman style wrestling. Bud lives in San Francisco now and makes as much money as I do, trimming teacup poodles into what looks to me like bonsai. His partner, Chaz, trims their owners' hair into matching styles.

Maybe I should have thought about those weighty matters before I dressed up like the Village People's Indian chief – talk about your mildly obvious homoeroticism – to wrestle it out with Denny Crane over Shirley Schmidt's hand… or perhaps it was some other portions of her anatomy I was considering when I suggested the match. I'm not sure any more. I also remember thinking that pro wrestlers needed costumes, but why I seized on that ridiculous Indian one I'm not sure of either. 

I'm not sure about a good many things at the moment; I'm merely grateful to be on the balcony and resting my feet, which I've abused in a pair of oversized women's pumps to pull off this Halloween costume. I sip my Laphroaig, watch the smoke curl off the tip of my Arturo Fuentes cigar, and then watch Denny do the same. I am silent, as is he. Lord only knows what he is mulling over in his mind – or if he is mulling over anything at all. 

Speaking of things one can never be too sure about, the content of Denny Crane's mind comes at the top of the list. His thought, or lack thereof, is as wildly unpredictable as anything known to humankind. I suppose mad cow can do that to you. I'll pass over finding that out personally; I'll take Denny's word for it.

While Denny may be lost in attempted thought, I am contemplating the public humiliation that was our wrestling match. At least everyone else was amused. They got a chuckle, while I got the next best thing to a piledriver and then landed flat on my back with Denny Crane, in wrestling spandex, sitting on my face. The place I'd ostensibly wanted Shirley to be sitting. And it was a good thing that my Village Idiot – sorry, I mean Village Indian – gear was loose at the hips, because if the drubbing I took wasn't bad enough, the embarrassment of having anyone spot the hard-on I had for being smothered by Denny's crotch on my nose and mouth would have been enough for me to need a month's sick leave for the humiliation… and Brad would still have rubbed it in when I returned to work.

Hard-on. Denny on my face. My currently exhausted brain can find some connections there; I'd call it a causal relationship if I had to examine it closely. I certainly wasn't thinking about Shirley at that moment, so no one can say she had anything to do with it, much as she'd like to think it was about her if she'd known about it.

The recollection of my response to Denny causes me to wonder. We've shared money, cars, vacations, a roof… even a bed. We've never shared Shirley. Was my interest in Shirley – an interest I find paling in comparison to my response to finding Denny's spandex-and-jock-cup-guarded genitalia in my face – genuine? Or was it a veneer of heterosexuality upon what is actually a homoerotic response to Denny?

Many if not most men, from what I understand, would belt their psychologist for making that suggestion to them, but I don't even blink in asking it of myself. The concept doesn't bother me; it never has. People are far too worried about sex; if they worried less, they'd have it more.

I pride myself on being an intellectual, on being able to think coldly and rationally through anything, even my own actions and motivations, low as some of them may be. I'm certainly no stranger to unorthodox sexual interests and practices – who else do you know who has fantasies about having tailors measure his inseam? Who's lived with an admittedly gorgeous but undeniably small "little person"? 

Who's – wait, let's not take it too far, it was Jerry Espenson, not me, with the sex doll. I just represented her. 

Okay, I have a limit. Whatever Hands is into, is it. Some things were not meant for man to know, and I already know more about Hands' psychosexual issues than man was ever meant to experience. Let me dig my way out of this subject right now.

At any rate, the idea of the non-average sexual experience arouses no fear in me, merely curiosity. And sex with men – well, what were my years in a college fraternity good for if not a few circle jerks? Surely that's at the fringes of counting for something. It's hardly unusual. And apparently it's something that's been lurking at or just beyond the corner of my mind… or at least sex with Denny Crane must be, given the ache in my groin at my closeness to his groin.

I puff on the cigar, partly in satisfaction, partly to keep it lit, and consider the moment. In particular, I consider what I'm wearing, which is the same thing Denny's wearing. Pink is more my color than his, especially in these dresses. When sex with men comes up, drag seems to sneak right in, and here we are.

I look down at my only slightly-eased feet. Come to think of it, my legs aren't half bad in panty hose and high heels. And with the right makeup, I could really do something with this wig. I should have worn this instead of that damn Indian getup when I went out to take on Denny in the squared circle. Maybe I'd have done better.

We're talking about something entirely different when Denny gives me a glance that tells me that my beauty assessment of our Halloween costumes for this year is correct. 

I never thought I could be this coy, but the pink dress brings it out as I retort to his gaze. "You're not getting into * this * dress, Denny."

The look I'm getting back from him tells me he's not averse to giving it a try anyway. Maybe his reaction to that wrestling bout was the same as mine. After all, he's Denny Crane, which seems to be explanation enough for anything.

As for me, I've always tried anything once. Twice if I've liked it. I've always liked Denny Crane. And apparently it's a good bit more now than just liking him. That's good for at least three times in my book.

Toto, I don't think we're just flamingos any more. So bring out those ruby slippers; the fairies are going to be flying this Halloween.


End file.
